Every moment blurs into a bend
of semi-reality, a question of
recollection. A thread fraying at the ends.
My heart pounds in a flurry,
and I'm in a frantic hurry
to dream my life a way and whisper nothings--
not even sweet--
and to disappear as soon as we meet
inside myself and inside a heart of amber,
in nectarine stagnation
of my own creation, balancing on the thick cable of separation
between thoughts and action, too afraid to fall into either.

Not a wallflower, but a wall indeed
caught in the mire of my own selfish loneliness.
Can you see me there? With my eyes in kind forgetfulness
and my hair cut short to show my face,
but finding it an empty place which is a cardboard front to my sagging edifice.
Oh god, I'm so afraid of being dull,
yet the harder I push, the more I pull.

I feel like I am a glacier on the run,
forced to move, afraid of the sun.
My bed is as cold, a glacial sheet
and I draw it up to my chin.
Within my head there's a circus of love,
clowns with painted faces and mirrors ten feet high.
And sometimes when I'm alone I cry and point my finger in my chest.
Always knowing why feel alone.

Is it possible to doubt yourself as much as I?
I kissed a girl once and felt blank
and I wondered why, and when
I found I sank to my knees and prayed
to my atheist god.
I am so ashamed, and with every rising sun my heart sinks in turn.
Why do my thoughts think and my courage fail
on the brink of something deep and terrifying?

These thoughts creep up on me in the night:
seethe from my skin and lay limp upon the street.
I'll play my music loud so they can't compete.

I wonder too often if I've lived my life all wrong.
Sometimes I'm lost, sometimes I play along.
I've burned myself and I itch at my knotted brand,
wishing I could change it at a command.
     Too simple, too stupid to wish scars away.
What would they say? That thought paralyzes me, keeps me static and in ice.

What is the price for the sin of lying to oneself?
And where do I begin?